


Teach me gently

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sam gets hurt, badly, on what was supposed to be a simple hunt to take their minds off the release of Lucifer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teach me gently

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Written as a gift for [](http://road_rhythm.livejournal.com/profile)[**road_rhythm**](http://road_rhythm.livejournal.com/) as part of the [](http://summer_sam_love.livejournal.com/profile)[**summer_sam_love**](http://summer_sam_love.livejournal.com/) fic exchange celebration.  
>  2\. This celebration was for the exchange of gen fic, and gen fic only. But with such amazing prompt (which I seriously hope I did some justice), how could I not go into slash territory? I couldn't not, hence, the sequel.  
> 3\. I seriously could not have finished these without the encouragement from so many of my friends (you know who you are!), and I thank them so much. I also absolutely could not have finished these without the amazing [](http://glovered.livejournal.com/profile)[**glovered**](http://glovered.livejournal.com/), my beta who's gone above and beyond. She whipped these fics into shape, that's for sure. All remaining mistakes or oddities are completely my fault.  
>  4\. Title from The xx's Shelter.

  
"A little R and R?"

"A little R and R," Dean says. "Something simple to take our minds off things. Least, that's what Bobby said."

"Yeah, cause a case is going to take my mind off the fact that Lucifer's loose."

Dean turns to face Sam, his look screaming clear as day that he doesn't want to hear any of that talk out of Sam.

Sam just turns away, looks out the window into the passenger-side mirror, and takes in the dark, heavy clouds hanging along the horizon behind them. This hunt’s supposed to take his mind off things, but, already, he’s back to thinking about how bad things are.

Truthfully, he isn't entirely sure how things got this bad, and he’s sick of thinking about it all of the time.

He's trying to teach himself to think less, to quit worrying about all the mistakes he's made. Sam thought he could do everything all on his own, stop the goddamn apocalypse by himself, for Christ's sake.

He knows now that he’s screwed up a lot of things. And he does realize that it’s all in the past, but he still can’t seem to stop worrying.

When he does find a moment of relief from his worry, when he’s able to stop thinking of his own transgressions, things don’t get any better – he’s on to the next thing. Like this damn storm – the weather might as well be tied to Sam personally, because these days it’s always rain or snow, trying to blot him out.

While shitty weather is to be expected in Minnesota this time of year, it feels as though Sam just can’t get away from it. This entire evening and now into the night, the storm has been chasing them. Him and Dean are in the Impala, headed toward a hunt on Bobby's recommendation, and every time Sam looks in the mirror he swears the low-hanging, charcoal clouds are getting closer, about to swallow him up.

They arrive in White Earth at two in the morning, get into their room just as the flakes start to fall. It’s coming down fast and heavy, and by morning, the snow will be heaped in drifts. Sam barely sleeps at all, can't stop his mind from running and can't get comfortable, despite the fact that Dean's just a few feet away, breathing rhythmically, which just happens to be probably the most comforting thing Sam's experienced throughout his life.

  


  
This morning, walking back to the room carrying coffee and a couple of bagels, that he's shielding under his jacket, Sam finds himself trudging through a near foot of packed snow. He enters the room with a slam of the door, and Dean raises his head slightly, sleepy eyes opened wide. But Dean pulls up the covers and settles back in soon as he realizes it’s just Sam.

"Rise and shine," Sam quips. He needs Dean to wake, can't be left alone with his thoughts and his guilt a moment longer.

"Cut the crap, Sam." Dean rubs his palms down his face and adds, "Haven't seen the damn sun in days."

"Well, who would've guessed that a little thing like the return of the prince of darkness would put a damper on things?"

Sam knows that Dean is upset, more than upset, and understandably, so he can't help the little smile that crosses his face when Dean says, "Sammy, would you just shut up? I have seriously had enough of your bull."

Yawning as he rises, Dean stretches out and then over for his cup. Dean releases a small moan as he savors the first sip, and he catches Sam smiling at him. "See, that's the spirit. We're gonna do this. We're gonna beat this son of a bitch if it's the last thing we do."

" _When_ it's the last thing we–" Sam starts, only to cut himself off, not allowing himself to finish saying, even thinking, that sentence.

He’s already getting better at curbing his negative thoughts, now he just has to figure out how to make things up to Dean.

  


  
A whole day they've been in White Earth, a whole day it's taken them to come up with nothing on the case of the missing winter sport enthusiasts, and a whole day that it's been snowing near constantly.

Sam takes a moment's break from his research, leans back in the room's kitchenette chair, and looks out the window. An hour ago he’d thought he had seen a break in the clouds, but the sky had opened up soon after. Another fresh layer of snow now blanketed everything, and that layer is growing ever deeper. The damn weather is affecting Sam’s mood. He’s pretty sure he feels even worse about everything than he did just a few days ago.

While Sam continues to watch the large chunks of snow fall, the type that looks wet and no good for making snowballs, he notices that Dean’s back. Sam’s glad he’s back, since he’s sick of being alone, and he chuckles to himself when he notices how Dean’s covered in snow, flakes clinging to his jacket and stuck in his hair. Sam's still snickering when Dean enters the room, but he tries to hide it as Dean looks up through his damp bangs.

"Shut the hell up, Sam. Not funny."

Sam looks him over again, more obviously. "Not even a little bit funny?"

"Nope," Dean says. "You know, the only reason I'm such a mess is cause I'm not too much of a chickenshit to brave the storm. At least someone around here's willing to do a little legwork."

"So what'd this legwork dig up?"

"Almost nothing." Dean cracks a huge grin and points a finger to his chest before adding, "But this handsome guy right here did happen to get at least _a little_ information out of one of the victim's buddies."

Sam doesn’t understand why Dean’s acting as though he’s in a good mood, and he feels like Dean’s just playing with him. His face tightens at the thought, brows drawing together as he says, "Oh yeah?"

Aware that Sam’s upset, Dean asks, "What is up with you?"

"I don’t know, man. You’re the one who’s pissed at _me_." Sam looks away from Dean and says, "And I get it. It’s not like I can forget how royally I messed up."

"Am not," Dean says. "Just quit worrying about it, Sam."

But Sam can’t just quit worrying – he’s trying to, but it isn’t that simple. Things with him and Dean have never been easy, but they had it all worked out, had the way they operated on hunts and with each other down to a science. Dean was his best damn friend, really always has been, and over the past few years since they've been back together, things have been good. Dean's the best thing Sam's got going in his life, which is why this is all so awful, and why he regrets the stupid decisions he's made over the past year and a bit. He just wishes there was something he could do to fix it, to fix everything.

Sam snaps out of his thoughts when he realizes Dean just asked him something. "Hmm?"

"Get your head outta the fricken clouds, Sam." Dean waves a hand that's supposed to explain everything and continues, "I said, so are you hungry or what? I'm thinking it's either dinnertime or Miller time."

And that settles that. Sam could use the break.

  


  
As Dean wipes some wing sauce from his cheek with the back of his hand, he explains what he uncovered. "So, first off, something is up. Three people gone missing from White Earth State Forest in as many weeks is more than a little fishy."

"You think? Maybe that's why we're here?" asks Sam, not at all sarcastically.

"Yeah, Sam, I do, and you're right, it is," he replies as his eyebrows draw together. Dean takes a large swig of his beer before continuing, "So, anyways. The first guy that went missing, Ryan Bath, was with three friends, right? Well, I talked to them today, and they all said the same thing: they have no idea what happened."

"Great."

"Wait, wait, wait. They said they were all cross-country skiing together, all four in a line. Ryan was at the back. None of them heard a thing, there was no indication that anything had happened. But when the guy in front of him turned to ask a question, he was just gone."

"So, mysterious disappearance."

"Yeah. And then after I talked to those guys, I went to see Mrs. Stevens, the wife of victim number two, Nick. Really similar story. They were skiing, alpine this time, and she was ahead of him on the hill. She was really focused on the ride, obviously, and when she got to the end and looked for him, he was just gone."

Sam nods. "And we know from the police database that they weren't able to find a thing on either of them. No pieces of clothing around, no tracks in the snow, nothing."

"Right."

"Well, I think it's pretty obvious what it is, don't you? Silent disappearances, in the wilderness, with not a single trace of evidence?"

Dean catches his eye as they both say, "Wendigo."

  


  
That night, Sam lies in bed sleepless, unable to get his mind to stop running, again. He tries to find solace in the sounds around him, Dean sleeping six feet to his right, the hum of the minifridge from across the dark room.

But it’s no use. He’s thinking about the case. He’s thinking about Dean. Dean, who should be pissed, but isn’t acting like it and says he’s not. And Sam can’t for the life of him figure out why. After all the shit that went down – Ruby, the demon blood, Lilith and the breaking of the final seal – hoping for Dean to ever trust him again is too much to ask.

  


  
Sam must've dozed off at some point, though, because he's woken the next morning by someone sinking into the mattress beside him. But he knows immediately not to be worried, that it's just Dean. Dad trained them well. He’d taught them how to be aware of their surroundings, how to know what’s going on even when you're lacking one of your senses, so Sam doesn't need to see Dean to know it's him.

When he opens his eyes Dean has an expression of concern on his face, looking at Sam from his perch on the side of the bed. "You sleep okay? You've been tossing and turning like a beast all morning." He grabs the mug of steaming coffee from the bedside table and passes it over as Sam sits up and back to lean on his headboard.

"Yeah, Dean. I did."

"Liar," Dean says. But he seems to let it go, briefly patting Sam on the leg and standing to walk over to the table. He sits in front of the laptop and says, "Anyways, up and at’em. We gotta get going."

"Of course," Sam says as he gets up and stumbles across the room to shower.

  


  
The interview goes by quickly. The friends of the most recent victim are young women, and there are three pairs of skis hanging on the wall of the living room shared by all of the girls. Sam and Dean sit down across from Ashley and Jennifer, as the blonde one asks, "Can I offer you a cup of coffee, officers?"

"No, thank you," Dean says, wide smile lighting up his face. "We won’t be here for long."

Sam chimes in, "We’d just appreciate it if you could tell us what exactly happened that morning in the park. We know you’ve already explained everything to the local police, but we’d really like to hear your accounts directly."

"Of course," the brunette, Ashley, responds. "The three of us were snowshoeing, on a trail we’ve hiked plenty of times before. I was in front, then Jennifer–" She gestures to her friend before continuing, "And Anita was at the back."

The two girls exchange a look before Jennifer takes over. "We don’t talk a lot while we’re out there, you know, but we do a little. Eventually I realized that Anita hadn’t said a thing in a really long while, and so I turned, to ask her how she was doing–" Jennifer begins to choke up, and Ashley rubs a hand across her back.

After composing herself, Jennifer continues, "And when I turned, she just. She just wasn’t there anymore."

"And you don’t remember hearing anything out of the ordinary while you were out there?" Dean asks.

"No, sir, not a thing," Ashley says.

"Well, thank you, ladies," Dean says. "I think that’s all we need."

"We’re really sorry for bothering you, but we appreciate your help," Sam says as he and Dean stand to leave. "We’ll be in touch as soon as we find out a thing about Anita. We promise."

  


  
While waiting for their lunch, seated across from one another at a diner with faux wood laminate tables and orange, vinyl seats, they decide how to proceed with the case.

"It's obviously a Wendigo," Dean says. "Figure this is gonna be a real easy one. We'll just head out there this afternoon, lure the thing out, and flame it. Should be able to hit the road tomorrow morning, get back to the important stuff." He looks over to Sam, noticing the look that comment brought to his face. "I'm sorry. You know, I'm not upset, anymore. It's just, well, finding Lucifer _is_ important."

"I know that, Dean. Believe me, I know." But Sam's confused, still doesn't understand how Dean isn’t upset, so he asks, "But, why aren't you mad at me, Dean? I mean, what the hell’s up?"

Dean's face shuts down. He lowers his head and Sam thinks he isn't going to answer, but eventually he says, "Because, Sam. It's not all your fault." When Sam balks, Dean continues, "It's not! Hello, who was it who broke a seal in the first place?"

Dean lowers his head even further, ashamed. "And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell."

Sam reaches his hand across the table but draws back, settles on choking out, "Dean–"

"Sam," Dean’s voice cracks. "Just don't forget that. We're in this together. Started it together, and we're going to finish it that way."

  


  
Later that afternoon, they head out to White Earth State Forest and spend a couple of hours trekking in to a place in the middle of where all three victims were snatched, before settling in. The hike takes longer than expected, sun sinking purple low, now, so they use the last available moments of daylight to carve a protective circle of Anasazi symbols in the mud after shoveling away piles of snow.

And then they wait, seated on the two tree stumps they carved the protective circle around.

Eventually, Dean decides to use his best tactic to lure the bastard out, eating peanut M&Ms, and Sam stands guard wielding a flamethrower. Then, it doesn’t take long before they catch first notice of it. A scream pierces the air, the voice of the most recent victim, Anita Parke.

Dean calls back to it, always one to antagonize, "Come and get us, you piece of shit!"

Sam watches Dean edge further and further toward the edge of the protective circle and follows him at a short distance. Dean exits the circle and Sam jumps out to reach for Dean's coat, attempting to pull him back in. Before he can grab a hold of it, though, he finds himself flying through the air. _What the hell's going on?_ Sam thinks. _What's got me–_

But, before he can finish that thought, he's out.

  


  
He comes to what must be hours later, judging by the amount of light – none. His head is extremely hazy, but it doesn't take him long to figure out that he's strung up to the ceiling of a cave, rope rubbing his wrists raw. What exactly he's strung up by he doesn't even want to know, but, luckily, it feels like some type of fiber. He should be able to get out.

It takes him a little longer to register the amount of pain he's in. His wrists are aching, all the blood from his arms lost to gravity, but that's the least of the problems. His head isn't just groggy, because when he rubs his forehead on his arm and then turns his head to look he's met with an overwhelming amount of blood on his sleeve. And though he knows he's not thinking clearly, when he kicks his legs around to get his bearings and looks down, he sees a massive amount of blood on his inner right calf, is pretty sure there's a chunk of flesh missing.

Flexing and twisting his wrists, Sam starts right in on trying to get free. Multiple times of having been captured and bound actually comes in handy, because it doesn't take long for him to get one wrist loose, and after that, the second one proves less than difficult.

Cringing at the pain in his leg, Sam makes to limp out of the cave. The floor's not even, and every few steps he stumbles, babying his leg as he manages to right himself. But, eventually, he sees a dim light ahead and feels a surge of hope that gives him the energy he needs to pick up the pace.

When he's finally made his way up the slow incline and out of the cave, Sam realizes he was right – it's the dead of night – he must have been out cold for hours. The snow is up almost to his knees, severely messing with his leg. And he’s disoriented, the ocean of pines, uniform, white ground, and cloud-covered moonlight causing everything around him to look identical.

But Sam's always had a good sense of direction and thinks he can tell which way their camp was and which way the car is parked. As he trudges through the snow, he worries about what's gone wrong. What the hell was it that got him? And where is Dean?

He sends up a quick prayer to a God he's pretty sure isn't listening that Dean's not hurt, but he can't help the nagging feeling in his chest. If Dean _isn't_ hurt, why hasn't he found Sam yet?

  


  
It's been hours now.

The moon, still stuck behind clouds but visible as a slight sheen, has moved far across the sky. And Sam feels as though he hasn't gotten any closer to finding the car or finding Dean.

He's exhausted, which he's pretty sure has less to do with the miles he's covered than the amount of blood leaving a wake behind him. Every now and then he pulls out his phone, hoping to get some sort of signal, but there's nothing, not a single bar.

Sam honestly feels like he doesn't know how much longer, how much farther, he can go.

Can't risk missing the one place where he'll find a connection, so he keeps his phone in hand, checks it every few feet while attempting not to slow down, to keep going. He feels like he's going in circles, even though he knows himself and knows he wouldn't do that. But he can’t really trust himself, not right now, not after losing this much blood. Sam turns, to check his paces, but it must be getting to him; he's losing his coordination, and as he whips himself back forward, his phone flies out of his hand.

He curses his carelessness.

The damn thing's sunk down into the snow a few feet away, and when Sam bends down to reach for it, his hands swipe through nothing but freezing cold. He leans down to try again, and once he's closer to his leg, he sweeps some snow away to get a look at it and realizes quickly how bad it is. There is an honest to God _chunk_ missing out of his lower leg. The skin's flayed open, the gash running almost the entire length of his calf, terrifyingly deep. And he swears that when he squints, he can see that the missing muscle reaches to the tendons. Blood seeps steadily out of the wound, and Sam's afraid there are even threads of bone visible beneath.

Now that he’s stopped for a moment he's able to see how quickly the blood is gathering, pools of it seeping into the snow around him. And there's more to the left. _Christ._ That's from his head. He hadn't even realized it was still bleeding.

Sam takes his eyes off the blood, because he's got to get his phone back. He's down here now, and he needs it to get ahold of Dean, or to at least allow Dean to track him. He sets down fully on to his knees and leans into the snow, tries to brush it out of the way where the original hole from the phone's entrance was. It's basically pointless, though, there's so much that it just keeps whooshing down. Sam barely makes any progress at all.

He begins to realize how damn _cold_ it is. It's got to be below 32°, but he actually doesn't really mind. At all. It feels so good to be off his leg and to be able to rest. He's been walking for hours, and he's exhausted.

Sam just wants to sit for a minute, just one minute, so he sinks down even further.

It doesn't take long for him to realize that he's freaking _freezing_. But it feels so good to just sit. The snow is deep, blanketing his legs, but he continues to idly brush his hand through the snow next to him in attempt to locate his phone. He wonders where Dean is, why it's taking him so long to find him, and whether he's okay. Wonders why he hasn't made it out of this damn forest and back to the car yet. Wonders what it was that grabbed him and tied him up in the first place – wasn't the Wendigo in front of Dean?

He needs to get to Dean. He needs to get up and keep moving.

The massive blood loss and the miles of hiking have gotten to Sam, though. It's terribly cold down here on the ground, but it feels so good to sit, to lean back and catch his breath.

Now that he's resting, Sam feels amazing.

He leans back even farther, deciding to rest for just a little while longer. Soon, he’ll get up and get out of here, but for now he’s just going to close his eyes for one minute....

  


  
"...am? Sammy?!"

Sam comes to with Dean's voice in his ear and Dean's hands clamped to his shoulders, shaking him, hard. It takes him a moment to find his voice. Actually, he can't find it at all. He tries to say, "Dean," but all that comes out is hoarse huff of air.

Sam is freezing, feels like he's froze right through, solid as ice.

But it doesn't matter, because Dean's here.

"Sam, what the hell?"

Not knowing what happened either, all he can do is shake his head. He only manages to shake it once.

The expression on Dean's face softens quickly. It's apparent how bad off Sam is. "Oh, Sammy. Come on, let's get you out of here."

Dean makes to lift Sam up, asks him how much he can help. But it's not much. Sam just shakes his head again. He can't find his voice. He can barely wiggle his fingers and toes, he's so damn cold. But as Dean slides an arm under his back and lifts, he does his best to help.

They're up, and they're on their way out of here. One foot forward and then the next, back and forth, Sam leaning on Dean.

As they walk, Dean explains what happened. "Damn Wendigos, Sam. Wendi _gos_."

Sam cocks his head and finds himself able to speak again, though barely, asking, "What?"

"There were two! _Two_ freaking Wendigos. And we had no idea."

"Holy shit, Dean."

"I know. Didn't even know it was possible." Dean shakes his head, still flabbergasted and still more than upset that one got a hold of Sam. "Guess they're fricken mates or something. Live together, hunt together."

"Wish we'd have looked into that possibility before we came out here," Sam says.

Nodding his head, Dean explains that it was the second Wendigo, the one they didn't know about, that snatched Sam just as he made his way out of the protective circle to reign Dean back in. Dean didn't even realize Sam was gone right away.

Dean was hunting the first one, the one that was after him and trying to lure him to the cave, when he cornered it, stunted its progress by throwing a knife into its arm, and then set it aflame.

That was when he realized there was a second, as he'd heard another fake call. But it took him way too long to find it, as it was hiding out in their cave and the cave's entrance was hidden by mounds of underbrush. He did eventually, though, and took that one out as well. He’d searched everywhere for the victims, tried his damndest, but the only evidence he found was that which pointed to them not having made it.

Luckily, he'd spotted Sam's footprints in the snow headed out of the cave.

"I can't believe you walked so far with this bum leg," Dean says.

"Can't either."

Sam thought his earlier hike had lasted forever, but that was before this one. Or maybe he's just that much worse off this time around. Slowing steadily down, his limp even greater than before, Sam is a mess.

Just as he's about to admit to Dean that he needs a break, they stumble into the lot where they'd parked the Impala. Dean opens Sam's door and piles him in, scrambles to get himself in as quickly as possible, and as soon as he's seated, Dean turns to inspect Sam's injuries more thoroughly.

"Sam!"

"What?"

"Holy hell. Look at this!" Dean touches a finger to Sam's forehead, just beside the open wound. The cold has stopped the flow of blood, but it's still obvious that it's no superficial gash.

Dean's eyes make their way down Sam's body, assessing everything. There's nothing else but the major problem with Sam's leg. And Dean doesn't even say a word about that. Eyes opened real wide, scared, Dean just pops the car into gear and slams on the gas. The tires spin wildly on the ice of the parking lot but eventually get their grip, and as Dean turns out onto the road, they squeal in protest at the speed.

Dean isn't usually so hard on his girl. Sam knows, though, that it’s because Dean is freaking out, and that he wants to get Sam back to the motel, fast.

  


  
A slam of the driver's side door and Dean is at Sam's side, rushing to help him out.

"Dean," Sam says. "Slow down. I'm okay."

"You are _not_ okay."

The weight of Dean's arm around him is a comfort while being dragged into the room. He wishes Dean wasn't so worried, wishes he'd stop tugging so hard, trying to move as fast as possible, not so fast with Sam's legs functioning at barely half-capacity.

Once inside, Sam finds himself shoved, though gingerly, onto the closest bed, while Dean hurries over to his duffel to grab the first aid kit. "First thing's first," Dean says, voice trailing off.

Sam's glad that Dean's so experienced in taking care of his injuries, and he watches through heavy eyes as Dean's fingers work deftly.

Not a half hour later, Dean has the gash on Sam's head sterilized and closed and has made good progress on the leg wound. Sam knows that one was tougher, is glad Dean took such care. It's going to take a long while to heal, but he knows Dean did good, saved the muscles and hopefully full use of Sam's leg.

Feeling so thankful for Dean, Dean who fixes everything, while Sam's always the one who screws everything up, he says, "'m sorry, Dean."

"Sorry?"

"For everything. For getting caught by that stupid Wendigo." Sam heaves in a gulping breath and continues, "I couldn't help you."

Sam can't look at Dean, his eyes huge with regret and stuck to the floor. "But mostly sorry for everything else. I screwed up. Huge. I'll understand if you can't ever forgive me for what I've done."

"You look at me, Sammy. Don't be like that." Dean sits next to Sam, forcing Sam to look at him. " _I'm_ the one who sold my soul and abandoned you. _I'm_ the one who left you all alone to figure out how to deal. I've been pushing you away, been distant, I know that. And don't you forget who started this whole mess. _I_ did."

Sam cannot handle this. It is not Dean's fault, it's _his_. He’s thankful that Dean’s not angry with him anymore and feels blessed to have such an amazing brother. But, even if Dean’s forgiven him, he has a hard time believing that Dean will ever trust him again.

"Okay, Dean. You forgive me. But I’m still going to try to make things right. I promise."

"Just no more apologies, Sam."

~end

  


And please check out the not-at-all-gen sequel, [How to breathe](http://lavishsqualor.livejournal.com/20609.html).

  


[to the masterpost](http://lavishsqualor.livejournal.com/21224.html)   



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